


For Russell T. Davies

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Episode: s03e12 The Sound of Drums, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Episode: s04e17 The End of Time (1), M/M, Missing Scene, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-03
Updated: 2010-12-03
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:11:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master can't go around looking like the old Prime Minister forever, so with a stolen bottle of peroxide in hand he's off to bleach his hair in a public restroom.  Along comes a businessman who mistakes him for a rentboy - explicit hi-jinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Russell T. Davies

**Author's Note:**

> There's a quote from RTD somewhere about the Master bleaching his hair in a public bathroom like a rentboy. Essentially, that's it - gratuitous PWP. I'm shameless.
> 
> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

It simply had to be done. He couldn't go around looking like the old prime minister who'd gone mad, could he? Though he had no specific goal in mind, he was still determined to be somewhat inconspicuous, and to that end he'd dragged a likely-looking thug into an alley, killed him, and robbed him of his wardrobe. It was all a bit baggy and smelled like weed, but it was also worlds away from Westwood suits and was exactly what he needed.

He'd eaten the man, after he'd killed him. It seemed like the thing to do, at the time.

The hair still presented something of a problem in his addled brain. Not the face, no – nothing he could do to change that, anyway. A bit of stubble, dark circles, that was the best he could come up with. Lack of proper regeneration, all that. But his _hair_ he could change with a little human technology and a bathroom sink. He'd stolen a bottle of peroxide from a drug store and, because he was _still hungry_ and because the woman at the counter had looked at him funny, he'd killed and eaten the two clerks.

Unfortunately, the lateness of the hour meant that he hadn't any customers to slaughter.

Now he'd found his way to a late-night diner on the edge of nowhere, just a few miles shy of an abandoned warehouse – the perfect place to hide and _eat_ and wait for the man he knew would be coming for him.

He never could stay away for long, the meddling bastard.

Twenty-four hours, the sign told him, and he laughed. Petty humans and their linear models of time, twenty-four arbitrary markers of the sun's position crammed into what they called a 'day' – so inaccurate that they'd invented all sorts of rules about the changing of hours and shortening of days and months to fit in with their archaic system of numbers.

A sagging, fleshy woman scowled at him as he slunk into the diner, peroxide clutched tight in one fist. "Coffee?" she asked, moving aggressively towards him as if to threaten him into buying something. They'd had trouble with tramps lately, and this one seemed particularly dodgy.

"Yeah. Gotta take a piss first," he replied agreeably, flashing her a grin that was only slightly mad. She'd probably taste foul, but he was _hungry_ again, and the rest of the food in this place smelled like shit.

"Don't even think about sleeping in there," she warned, taking a tentative step back. This one was _definitely_ off. Looked a bit like the old prime minister, too, but maybe she'd just been on shift too long.

The man nodded his thanks and shuffled off towards the public toilets.

A gentleman in a snappy suit watched his passing with interest. He was out of place, and that alone marked him as a John looking for a cheap, quick fuck. Boys often congregated here on cold evenings, and this particular customer was a regular. He didn't recognize the man in the hoodie, didn't even know if he was on offer, but something about him was undeniably intriguing. Might've been the feral gleam in his eyes, or the way he was quite possibly crazy. Either way, the man in the suit was determined to pay him a visit, _persuade_ him to put out.

The bathroom was filthy. Pine-scented sanitizer barely covered the underlying stench of human excrement, and suspicious stains streaked the grubby tiles on the wall. Homo sapiens were _disgusting_ creatures, when you came right down to it – hardly even capable of shitting in the bowl, much less cleaning up after themselves.

He leaned over the least foul sink and thrust his head as far under the tepid stream as he could, rinsing out the excess peroxide from his now white-blonde mop of hair. It'd worked out better than he'd expected, and he felt certain he'd pass as a stranger now. The peroxide stung his fingers, and once he'd finished rinsing his hair he thrust his hands into the water. It hissed and spat when it hit his flesh, and he peered curiously at his own palms. Something was rather distinctly amiss, that he knew – but _this_ was unexpected. He pressed a hand to his cold cheek and bit back a curse at the sudden heat.

Sharp anger became sudden glee when he realized that this meant he could _burn_ people with a touch. Frying them from afar was well and good, but oh, what he wouldn't give to lock his fingers around some fat fuck's throat and throttle them to death, scalding them all the while.

_Delicious_.

A creak from the bathroom door broke him from his reverie. He turned slowly to face the man in the suit, curling and uncurling his fingers. His sopping hair dripped rivulets of water down his neck, soaking the collar of his dark hoodie and raising goosebumps.

"Are you on the offer?" the businessman asked, eyeing him up and down like a cut of meat. Older than he usually liked, but what was variety if not the spice of life?

He took a step forward, eyeing the businessman right back, his dark eyes full of a much more feral hunger. Starvation rumbled through him, and he contemplated another murder – no, not murder, a _hunt_ – but a sudden thought stayed his hand. Why shouldn't he have a little fun first? He hadn't fucked a human male for years and years (did Harkness count?), and wouldn't it be a delight to watch this bastard's self-satisfied pleasure turn to horror when he wrenched out his lungs?

"Might be," he replied, a thin smile creeping to his lips. "Should've offered me dinner first. A cocktail. Something."

The businessman laughed and fished a fist-full of bills out of his blazer. "If you're a good ride, sweetheart, I'll buy you whatever you want off the menu." He held up the cash, brow raised – surely this tramp wasn't asking much. By the state of him, a hot coffee and a sandwich should have been more than enough payment.

"Give me a name," he said, taking another step towards the man in the suit. "Gotta have something to call you." Up close, the suit wasn't so snappy. Curious shade of blue, awfully familiar – when he caught on his hearts leapt into his throat. _Good_ color. Looked awful on this chubby wanker, but on a slimmer frame, it was _perfect_. He knew how lovely the material felt sliding over skin, as well, and the way the blazer sleeves bunched up just-so when caught around bound wrists.

The businessman caught the flicker of warmth in the now-blonde man's eyes and congratulated himself. With his good looks and charm, he could wring an erection from a stone.

"Call me John Smith, if you'd like," the businessman chuckled. He tucked the cash back in his pocket and started unbuttoning his blazer, eager to get down to business.

_John Smith_. Well, wasn't that just _keen_. It didn't matter that this was a common earth alias – it still _reeked_ of his very best of enemies, a man who loved humans more than his own people. His smile grew to a grin, and he took the last few steps to join his John. If he could convince his psyche to cooperate, this might be better than he expected. Deft fingers, still damp, darted forward to flick the businessman's fly open, even before he'd finished with the buttons on his own blazer. He dropped to his knees on the damp floor and glanced up at his prey, lips quirked in a coy half-smile.

"Impatient little cocksucker, aren't you?" the john laughed. "Looks like you could use a little fresh meat." He tugged down his slacks and briefs and grasped his half-hard cock, giving a few preliminary tugs, hoping he could keep it up long enough to get a taste of blondie's ass.

"You have _no_ idea," he purred. A quick taste confirmed remembered assumptions – human beings were like potato chips. Quick empty calories, nothing but salt and carbohydrates. Still, it set his mouth to watering, and he ran his tongue lavishly along the length of the john's cock, coaxing him to full hardness in increments. Not very virile, this one – but then again, his last human had been a 51st-century freak.

It didn't take long to rev the john's engines. Soon enough he'd gripped the blonde by the back of his head and forced him to swallow down more, thrusting his thick shaft down the back of his throat. The blonde choked a moment, then fisted his hands in his slacks and took him all the way in, pressing up on his cock with his tongue and swallowing against the fullness in his throat. He took the mouth-fucking like a champ, like he loved every minute of it, groaning and rocking his hips against the empty air.

The pathetic man couldn't know that it wasn't _his_ cock the blonde took such delight in. Instead, he'd forced the bland taste of him from his mouth and his mind, coaxing his neurons into presenting him with an entirely different scenario.

_He'd strapped him down, as a matter of course; letting him free when he fucked him added a little spice now and then, but this was how he preferred him. Bound, gagged, rock-hard, and he'd been like that for over an hour now. The Master himself was bare to the waist, having retained his slacks just for the little extra bit of denial it caused the Doctor._

" _Are you ready to be good for me now?" he asked, running one gloved fingertip up the inside of the Doctor's thigh. The Doctor whimpered around the silk stuffed between his teeth and nodded, hips lifting off the bedsheets._

" _All good boys deserve favors," the Master quoted in a sing-song voice, then bent to kiss the tip of the Doctor's straining erection._

The john shook him by the hair, snapping him out of his fantasies and bringing him right back to this reeking bathroom and saltine-cracker of a cock thrust down his throat. He pulled back, licking strings of saliva and pre-come off his lips, and gave the man a quizzical look.

"I want your ass," the john panted. "Get up- get the fuck up and bend over."

He rose to his feet with a smirk and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. "Say _please_ ," he said, and the edge of command in his voice both startled his prey and left him unable to do otherwise.

"Fine, fuck – _please_ bend the fuck over, your highness."

He threw his head back and laughed, unzipped his jeans and pulled them down around his thighs. His little fantasies had done a number on him; too bad he wasn't prepared to let the john live long enough to get him off. The way the man was looking at him, he wouldn't be surprised if he could get him to _beg_ for the opportunity to taste him.

He bent over the nearest sink and spread his legs, gripping the stained porcelain and watching the john approach in the mirror. One spit-slicked finger forced its way in and he bit the inside of his cheek to stop a wince. Once he'd given himself a moment to adjust, the pain of the john's rather hasty and violent preparation became a pleasure, and he closed his eyes in bliss. He was so attached to inflicting harm upon others that he rarely got to enjoy it, himself, and he could justify this little excursion by punishing the man afterwards.

Spit and a little finger-fucking was in no way sufficient for him, not when he spent so much more time with his cock up others' orifices rather than the other way around. The pain of the john's initial thrust blossomed spectacularly through every nerve, unexpected and exquisite. The john was rough on him, forcing himself a little deeper with every hasty thrust, grunting and panting like an animal. His own cock pulsed against his stomach and he couldn't stop a low groan of pure, sweet _need_ from slipping past his clenched teeth.

Under such conditions, it was the work of a moment to drop back into his own memories-

_-The Doctor's length seated fully within him, hot and hard and perfect, pressing directly against_ that spot _as if he'd been built to do just that. Perhaps he had – after all, each regeneration fit with the Master's like a key in a lock. Of course, the Doctor was still bound, for the Master preferred to be on top always, and he presented him with such a lovely view this way._

" _Don't you fucking come yet," he gasped, digging his nails into the Doctor's sides. "Don't you_ dare. _"_

_Tears of frustration and blinding need trickled down the Doctor's face and he slammed his hips up against the Master's, using his own bindings for purchase. The Master snarled with pleasure and rode him, meeting each thrust and tensing up with each withdraw. He leaned forward, pressing his cock between them, and cursed the Doctor long and low, hissing filthy things in their native tongue._

_The Doctor couldn't hold out, was practically roaring against the gag, and the Master dug his nails in and reared back, taking every inch of him in, commanding him to come-_

The john came with a hoarse wheeze, rutting up against him with erratic strokes. He bit back a scowl of frustration, ripped again from the memories playing behind his eyes. God, he might come if someone so much as _breathed_ on him, and all he had was this disgusting, short-lived bastard leaning on his back like a walrus. Filthy, foul human being, a terrible shag – how dare he have the indecency to come before he'd been permitted to.

He heaved him away and stood, come trickling down his thigh, now openly furious. The john stumbled back and worked hastily to stuff himself back in his slacks.

"You disgusting, stinking human," the blonde hissed, stalking towards him. "Shagging rentboys in the public toilet – and you're a godawful fuck, by the way."

The john opened his mouth to speak, but never got the chance.

The blonde closed his hands around his throat, cutting off his air, forcing him back step by step until he'd pinned him against the far wall. The scent of burning flesh filled the room, and the john wheezed and strained and tried to scream as fingers pressed inexorably against his windpipe.

"Do you even know who I _am_?" the blonde snarled, thrusting his thumbs against the soft flesh beneath the man's jaw. He shook him for emphasis, each word bolstering his ego- "I am the _Master."_

He dropped the dead weight in disgust and brushed his hands off. The john lay in a crumpled heap, slacks still open wide, mouth agape in shock. The Master dropped to a crouch beside him and fished around in his blazer, pulling out the cash and his wallet and setting them aside for later. His cock throbbed again, almost plaintively, but he ignored it for the moment.

He was _so hungry_.


End file.
